I Think About The Things We Will Never Have
by Meowbowwow
Summary: Sherlock loves John, more than he had ever imagined he could love. And yet, when John confesses his love to him amidst a languid kiss, he tenses up. Sherlock has a terrible secret, terrible and unbelievable and this is a story about that. LOADS OF FLUFF! BAMF big brother Mycroft and a few chapters of kid!Sherlock. SMUT in the end. Triggers: Bullying Additional Characters: Victor
1. Chapter 1

"I love you," John's words tumbled out between kisses, unable to be held back, drowning him with the utterance of every syllable and yet, they fluttered past and settled behind Sherlock's black pupils, blown wide and consuming his words whole. He drew back and an unconscious pink tongue darted out, ruing the loss of contact and tasting John on his lips. Sherlock closed his eyes, his breathing like the sad rumble of the ocean, the stiffness of his heart palpable to John who reached out and rested his ear against his chest, calming his own pulse in rhythm to the one under him. Long fingers smelling of rosin snaked down his scalp, a calloused thumb sweeping past his jaw and cupping his face in itself.

The eyes held him, scared and so vulnerable that John ached to kiss the dread away from them.  
"I love you," he repeated, this time much more softly as his lips found Sherlock's and just lay between them, relishing the warmth and soaking in them. The other pair released them gently and settled somewhere around his temple, murmuring nothing and so much, a short series of verse trembling near the shell of his ear.

"You shouldn't," was the only thing that rang in the walls and echoed again and again till it screeched inside John's skull, the warmth of Sherlock's body against his gone as he heard him flop down the sofa, his head in his hands, repeating, "You can't, don't," as much to John as to himself. He clawed his knees in agitation, one hand running down the back of his neck repeatedly like trying to scratch away an ailment.

John felt the air thicken with sadness as a violin was ripped out of a decorated case and a dirge filled the air. It went on for minutes, years and decades till he found himself wrapped around his own body on the couch.  
"I have a terrible secret," came a whisper between the screech of the strings, the very walls hummed in its wake.  
"Not today," John replied, wrapping Sherlock's body around him, breathing the same air as him and making love like it was their last.

OoO

"Love is when a golden morning breaks out of the clouds and burns your walls in manila coloured flames, when a tangled mass of legs and a flutter of a heartbeat felt by your tongue on someone's skin is dawn enough to make you ache with life." And love was Sherlock, for John. He heard the pale body quiver under him, seeking warmth, reassurance and so much more from the words, gravitating towards the mouth that had spoken them and sealing it in a morning kiss.

"There are days when love is walking down the stairs with veins heavy with anger, sitting on cold park benches and drinking every breath in like a dying man's last and then coming back to the smell of pancakes wafting with sorries," he continued whispering words in a curly mop of hair that smelled of bergamot, his hands stroking the warm body gently like petting a wounded animal.

"And love is acceptance, acceptance of the fact that there would be days without love," he finished, finding the lips again and trying to drink every secret out of them, for none was more precious than this one truth - John was utterly and irrevocably in love with Sherlock and nothing could ever change that.

Sherlock sighed from between the sheets and said, his voice steeled and broken, resigned and strong,"I'll tell you everything. Let me take you back to the start."

**This is going to be a long one, well longer and much different than anything I have ever written. There will be loads of fluff and sadness. Leave a review because it really does wonders to a writer. Thank you and I hope you enjoy it.  
xoxo  
Meow**


	2. Chapter 2

_A little boy with hair as wild as storm and eyes like the grey horizon beckoning it walked with his head low, the tips of his fingers brushing against the bricks of the old decrepit building, more out of habit than anything else. He was humming gently, a tune forgotten in his brilliant mind, perhaps the first lullaby he heard and stored in the walls on his head, perhaps something else. He kept moving along, one wall to the next, the grass under his feet lush green once and soggy brown next, when the humming in his throat stopped suddenly. His fingers had reached another wing of the giant palace, the bricks were old and forlorn here, moss and lichen clung on to them for dear life._

_Unlike the other parts which were antique but very well maitained, majstic even, the walls here looked abandoned by the sun itself, you could almost feel the cold and darkness that echoed off their souls. But that isn't what made the boy stop, turn around and run away screaming. It was the faint whispers that came out of the bricks, every jagged mark spoke out like it was a mouth, a million mouths closed on him and suffocated him. Some voices begged, some rumbled angrily, some moaned in pain and some threatened. There were others that were dead even by the standards of death, mute and much more painful that the ones that spoke because they pulled the boy's heart out of him._

_The screams matched their own when the curly haired child ran away with his back towards them, vowing to never return, rubbing his finger tips on his white hankerchief till his skin was pink and raw._

_OoO_

_"Sherlock, talk to the doctor," Mrs. Holmes sounded worried and pained, she brushed her hand over her son's head and spoke in whispers, afraid that any loud sound would shatter her boy's sanity. _  
_"I am perfectly fine, mother. There is nothing new I have to add and since you don't believe me, it is a wastage of my time," Sherlock got out and left, his pained eyes hidden from everyone in the room. 4 pair of eyes bore into his back as he slowly climbed up the stairs into his room, the door was slammed so hard that the book shelves shook in his father's study._

_OoO_

_"But Mycroft, I am not lying! I am not mad, I really did hear voices. And they were talking. To me. About things...many things, actually. I caught some words and the rest I didn't, but there were voices." Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed, his feet dangling along the tucked in sheets, wiry muscles and pale skin clashing against the cream, the effect fascinating him even in his state of agitation._

_"Sherlock, listen," Mycroft shook his brother gently and turned him around to meet his eyes. _  
_"They searched the building, they combed every inch of it but they could find no one, not even a soul. How, then, could you have heard voices?"_  
_"I did, though. I don't know how."_  
_"Perhaps, you hallucinated. You need to spend some time with other people, maybe that'll make it go," the look Mycroft recieved at this statement bled with betrayal._  
_"So, you think I'm crazy too. Like Mother and that psychiatrist friend of hers." Sherlock's voice was low and measured but he was angry._  
_"No, I don't think you are crazy. Maybe, it was just a one time thing." Mycroft shrugged, not meeting his brother's eyes. Sherlock jumped out of the bed and began walking out of the room, and said in a soft voice,"I thought you, of all the people, would believe me, Myc." _  
_The anger was gone but Mycroft would have readily traded the coldness for it. The voice was sad, almost broken . And it was reeking of one thing Mycroft Holmes had hoped he would never hear from his brother, it was disappointment._

_Sherlock walked out and Mycroft heard the sound of his footsteps dying away, his fingers steepled in front of him, coaxing himself to believe his little brother, failing miserably._

_OoO_

_Sherlock went back to the building, again and again and again. He had read somewhere that flooding yourself with your worst fears would make them go away, perhaps in one of his father's old journals he so enjoyed poring over. The sun was high up in the sky and the building glowed golden in the distance, yet without even reaching the east wing, Sherlock knew that the sun couldn't reach it. It could never reach inside the bones and muscles of the bricked body, some walls were too strong for warmth because they had become pliable to cold. He took a deep breath and steeled himself as he touched the walls. It was as if the voices were dying to speak, they broke inside his head in a tumult of waves, washing over him till he drowned and couldn't breathe. He withdrew his hand and the voices stopped immediately but they still echoed at the back of his mind, gnawing at the last of his innocence. _

_He put his knuckles in his mouth and bit hard, hard enough to draw blood. _  
_No, he wasn't dreaming, he was sure of that. He touched the walls again, just to be sure, tormenting himself with the screech of the voices, getting calmer by the second. He remembered the song he was humming the last time he was here, remembered the exact point he had broken off and continued, his voice still childish but deep for his age as he added words to the music._

_"And up and up and up he went,_  
_the little boy with eyes of glass,_  
_he saw nothing of what he could,_  
_but everyone saw it, alas!_  
_And the boy wept in his mother's arms_  
_but she pushed him into the yard,_  
_"Big boys don't cry," she said,_  
_as he continued weeping hard."_

**Please leave a review to let me know if I'm doing fine. Also, thanks for reading if you've reached this far.  
xoxo  
Meow**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Triggers: Bullying**_

_Sherlock's eyes were redolent of an early morning, grey pupils skittering like an obtuse sun in the middle of a rust coloured sky, paling every thing it falls on, setting fire to all the hues without any discrimination. School was something he liked waking up to but having slept the previous night crying himself to sleep, his mood wasn't exactly euphoric._

_The summer holidays were over and kids his age met each other brimming with stories of their holidays - of adventures in tree-houses and Australian sunsets, the books they had read and the creatures they had dreamt, the stories they had written and the marbles they had won. And yet, the most intelligent amongst them sat alone, his bag clutched to his side, hair awry, eyes lidded but ears overtly sensitive to every conversation that was going on in his vicinity._

_"Hello, Sherlock. How were your holidays? You look a bit pale." His only friend Reginald sat next to him, his eyes wary and drowsy with stories of Sherlock's supposed misadventure. Sherlock simply looked at him, now worn beyond measure to even care to shoot him a look of hurt. He simply sat there, staring at his shoe laces and watching the pattern of ants walking on the floor, right under their shoes. Reginald stamped a few, breaking the line midway and getting Sherlock's attention as he looked up._

_"Have you been crying?" his voice was small but brave, like he was raring Sherlock to shout back, to insinuate against him."Go away, Reg. Leave me alone." Sherlock replied, looking away from him and giving his undivided attention to the ants that were now reorganising themselves, trying to find their pattern back._

_Reginald wanted to say something but their teacher arrived just then, breaking the little groups as everyone settled into their places. He still sat next to Sherlock for the entire day, waiting for his friend to tell him about his little episode. It never came._

_Sherlock would have liked to share it with someone, anyone, tell them about what he was feeling - hurt, confusion, fear. Everyone was a disappointment - Mother, Mycroft and now Reg. Perhaps in his older days, Sherlock would describe this point, as the moment of realisation that he could trust no one, as the second when he actually grew up._

_As the day ended and he was wrapping his things up, he heard movement behind up, an innocent rustle and nothing more. But he had catalogued every little sigh and rustle of every person he knew to not turn around for finding out who it belonged to."Reg, what do you want?" he whispered, his voice bored but senses tingling."Tell me about it." Reginald replied, defiantly."About what, it's nothing." Sherlock was almost shoving stuff in his bag by now, his fingers shaking a little. A sealed bottle of ink escaped his hands and fell down on the floor, crashing and spreading an ocean of blue all over the ground, lapping up on his soles and splashing at the hem of his trousers._

_Before he knew it, a few boys, some older than him and some of the same age, pulled his arms behind him, dragging his small form and pinning him to the wall. Rupert was huge and rather well built for his age, he shoved Sherlock's head back hard, pulling his hair out of his face so hard that Sherlock almost screamed in pain._

_"FREAK!" he spat at his face as the other boys laughed, Reginald squirmed a little but did nothing. "What do you want, let me go!" Sherlock tried to free himself but was punished with a knee in his gut, he fell down with the pain and clutched his middle. As he closed his eyes, trying to bite back the tears, the terrible pain hit him harder, multiple heels beating around his back and front. One hit him square on the mouth and he tasted the sharp iron of blood on his tongue. He could hold it no more, the tears flowed freely and got lost in the neat trickle of blood coming out of his mouth._

_"You crazy bastard, strutting around like you know everything. We know that they are going to send you to a mental hospital," Rupert's harsh tone was somewhat muffled, Sherlock felt weak and broken, also tasting bile as he started puking. Somehow, it made him feel better but the stench was overwhelming as his guts twisted painfully, the bile eerily floating right in front of his broken face._

_Suddenly, strong arms were pulling him up as voices cheered the owner on, screaming and chanting one word - FREAK! A marker was retrieved, Sherlock's eyes were still screwed shut from the pain but he could smell the toluene as the tip trotted across his sweaty forehead to write something. The voices hushed each other as they all heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps nearing the room._

_Sherlock's body slumped down, the arms supporting it gone as the room cleared quickly. The last memory Sherlock had of the evening was the sound of screams, the sound of Mycroft and his English teacher's voice gushing almost inaudible like a stream far off as Sherlock found himself losing consciousness._

_OoO_

_He woke up hours later, when the dawn was gone and it was 3:35 am in the morning as per the glow clock by his bedside. In the pale light of the moon, the words on his forehead looked pale but far from gone, written in a ghastly red colour that gave it the appearance of a scar, five letters - FREAK._

_He decided it was the best time to pay the east wing a visit, to live up to his scar._

**I hope you like the story so far, please leave a review to let me know if I'm doing well. Also feel free to point out any typos I may have missed while proofreading.  
xoxo  
Meow**


	4. Chapter 4

John was stretched languidly across Sherlock's pale body, wiry hands were wrapped around his torso as he extracted himself from the mess of arms and legs, eyes aching from the morning sun filtering through the open window. London was quiet today, surprising for the sun was out and about, filtering the smell of vanilla out of the leaves and onto the pavements.

The narration had ended, mellowed down and died out of Sherlock's mouth as the night had pulled them both in, rocking them till they slept like people with no worried creases between their brows. Sherlock's pale body glowed golden in the sun, his back a spotless expanse of marble tombstone, rippling gently as he breathed low and murmured in his sleep.

John could see his forehead spread like a summer field and the sight of him took him back to the story, he was still nowhere close to the 'secret' but it brought him back from romantic metaphors to gut wrenching protectiveness. He snaked his arms across his lover's torso and bent down to peck the head. Sherlock's side lined perfectly against John's chest as he hugged him closer, trying to tiptoe inside that brilliant head and quell every storm there was.

Sherlock stirred and put his arm around John lazily, nudging him down for a careless kiss that ended up bumping their noses, messy lips colliding against each other and gasping in breathless giggles. They kissed more, tongues still curious even though there was no territory in each other's mouth they couldn't map with their eyes closed. When they broke apart, it was with sighs of a morning beckoning them for darker things.

When Sherlock dragged his body to the bathroom, John whispered, "I still love you" and hoped Sherlock hadn't heard, secretly wishing he did. As Sherlock was closing the door, he heard the faint whisper of John's voice saying "I still love you" and he hoped it was true as he closed the door, hoping that he would be able to say it back some day.

OoO

"Tea?" Sherlock's voice travelled down the creaking floorboards, his favourite dressing gown crumpled on his body, barely managing to stay put on his shoulders. The thing almost had a mind of its own, John thought as he hummed a response, watching Sherlock move in the kitchen with the kettle in his hand, the robe swishing behind him. He gave it a sniff and continued working, making John's heart glow with blissful domesticity and romance that could only be achieved when you knew someone very intimately.

He would never tire of this, of watching Sherlock prepare tea with as much concentration as he offered to his experiments, the fingers not differentiating between the handle of the kettle or a delicate test tube.

John was sprawled across Sherlock's armchair, realising why the man spent days and nights brooding in it and not budging an inch. It was so plush and comfortable that it made him yawn in bliss. Sherlock came back with the steaming mugs, taking one look at him and giving him an amused smile as he handed him his tea and sat on the couch.

Minutes stretched in silence, it was so comforting to know that you could stay in a room with someone and not talk for hours on end, not even glance at the other and yet, feel so connected. John was aware of every movement of Sherlock's feet as they slid down the couch, inch by inch and Sherlock could tell without looking that John's eyes were fluttering to a close, a millimetre with every yawn.

The dulcet evening morphed into an inky night and they sat there in darkness, drinking each other in, their quiet conversations filling in the air inside their minds. Sherlock got up, gleaming even in utter darkness to put the lights on and finding John still very awake, to his surprise.

"My chair," he said, looking at John, the corner of his lips twitching and an eyebrow disappearing in his curls as he tilted his head.  
"Hmmm," John mumbled, motioning Sherlock to join him on the chair.

Sherlock, even though he appeared cold and distant to most people, was actually hopelessly weak when it came to snuggles and touching, things no one would even dream of associating him with. A careless leg hooked over his waist when they slept next to each other or palms spread flat at the back of his neck as he sat on the floor between John's dangling legs and worked on the laptop, things like these made him lean back into the touches and hum appreciatively. John had even realised that he could make Sherlock do small things like passing on the pen, clearing the microwave or making tea by simply ruffling his hair affectionately.

Sherlock padded up to him like a child and looked as if he was calculating if the small space left unoccupied by John would be enough for him. John, on realising what he was thinking, pulled him by the waist and flopped him down on his lap, pushing him further so that his side was resting comfortably against the chair's lush back. He burrowed his head under his chin and he let his arms envelope his thin frame in a warm embrace. Sherlock actually purred at the contact and hugged him back, resting his chin on John's blonde head.

They sat there, locked in melting sighs and smiles as he felt Sherlock's arms tighten around him.

"So, let us continue..."he said as John gripped him back, finding himself in the arms of a 10 year old boy, scared and vulnerable and he could do nothing but say, "I still love you" loud enough this time. A kiss fluttered out of the cupid bowed lips and rested on his head as the rich voice continued.

**Thank you for those of you who have stuck with this story so far. I know the pace is snail-like but I am trying to update quickly, to make up for it. Thanks again and do leave a review for any typos you find or if you like the story.**


	5. Chapter 5

_Sherlock came to bed early next morning, his ribs still hurt when he moved but somehow, the hurt felt sweet, welcome even after the night he'd had. He wrapped his arms around himself as he slowly sank into his bed, barely home in time for, the moment he hit the mattress, there was a growl from the skies and it started pouring in earnest. He turned around and let his sight graze over the shadow outside. It was almost magical, watching the world through a sheet of rain, he opened the window and stood by it to feel the grains hit his face. It felt as if there was a glass between him and the world beyond, the almost straight line in which it poured helping his illusion. And really, wasn't he?_

_The events of the night had really proved things to Sherlock, that he was far from ordinary. Extraordinary, even. Was it a curse or a blessing? Did he even care?_

_He had gone out last night, bare-feet tickling a little against the plush grounds of their house. However, as he moved further, the wind cold and angry as his hair whipped around his face and his loose night-shirt clung on to his body, the grass grew coarser. At times, a stray pebble cut his pale feet and the moon came out of the grey clouds to blind him, he soldiered on, walking slowly and steadily, too tired to avoid the gravelly ground._

_The east wing looked even more eerie under the hesitating moonlight, a bunch of blood-red berry bearing plants peppered its side, giving it a ghastly look. Sherlock felt light-headed, drinking the sight in, preparing himself for what was to come. The grass was all but gone, pebbles getting stuck between his toes as he slowly moved from the moonlit grounds to the shadowed expanse of the wing._

_He touched the walls and felt the murmurs break into him like a song, dousing all the pain and filling him up to the brim in a sweet scent of pine trees and mulled wine. They didn't sound angry at all but rather, conversational, it felt as if they were talking to him. His heart beat feebly in his chest, travelling gently to settle somewhere in his ears. He looked around, just to move his body and feel the aching of his limbs, anything to prove that he wasn't hallucinating, that this was actual and he was alive._

_He felt a pang near his sides and scowled, a small grunt escaping him. The voices shushed themselves immediately as Sherlock turned around, straining his ears that had grown frighteningly sharp. He realised that he could count the crickets by their chirp, that there was a nightingale in the grounds, that the wind sounded like a wounded animal slithering on the ground. And that moonlight warmed you if you stood looking at it for a long time. He didn't know how long he stood like that, but in a while, the murmurs started again, feeble at first but louder later._

_He just stood there, his palms pressed flat against the wall, feeling and mapping everything. He let go of it and walked back, touching random objects on the way, the working of his brain so loud that he was scared it would wake everyone in the mansion up._

_OoO_

_"Sherlock, wake up. Take your medicine," the voice was his mother's as he felt her hands brush gently against his forehead, her skin soft and smelling of mint and thyme. Mycroft stood at the door, his expression quiet and worried as he saw his brother taking the medicines and a hint of a scowl as their mother moved his shirt up to check the scars on hi chest and sides. After she had fussed over him enough and wiped his forehead with a strange smelling cloth, she went away, telling him to go back to sleep._

_"Sherlock?" Mycroft whispered softly as Sherlock lay down on his bed, pulling his covers up and still feeling the grass under his feet and the faint warmth of moonlight on his lips. He closed his eyes in its memory, sighing when his brother called his name again and gently touched his forehead. Sherlock didn't flinch, even though he didn't like it when people touched him._

_"You knew." Sherlock said, no anger or question in his voice, just a statement that hung heavy between them and peered from under the sheets, waiting to be broken with a reply. Mycroft nodded, then realising that Sherlock's eyes were still closed, hummed in answer._

_Sherlock opened his eyes and scanned him, Mycroft felt the hair on his back stand up as he felt himself getting scrutinized like that, Sherlock had their father's gaze - sharp and scientific. It wasn't judgmental but it was so utterly detached, like they were scanning someone they knew nothing about, that it made him shiver._

_"And you? Ah, let me guess. The maps?" Sherlock said, not breaking eye contact with his brother. Mycroft nodded. Sherlock sighed._  
_"Why didn't you tell me?" he said, some anger and betrayal creeping back into his voice but staying there in measured quantities._

_"I couldn't. When it happened with me, I was your age, Sherlock. And it scared me so much that I never told anyone about it. Father deduced it, obviously but none of my friends had even a hint of the fact that there could be more to my strange knowledge about every little hiding place in the school. They simply accepted it graciously and well, I liked the way they looked at me when I found a particularly tricky hiding spot or when I told them about the Alps without ever having gone there. I suddenly felt like the superheroes we read and..." Mycroft looked down, not meeting Sherlock's eye, his statement trailing off._

_"And you didn't want to share it because you thought it was something very special about you. Also, in the back of your mind, you felt superior to me," Sherlock finished it for him. Mycroft didn't reply but the silence was so palpable, it was breaking through the ceiling._

_Instead, Mycroft sat down at the edge of the bed and continued,"When you came back that day and told us about it, I thought that you had somehow found out about my secret and were just trying to compete with me, to prove that you were better than me. But then..."Mycroft looked around, to check if no one was listening and continued in a low voice. "But then you still kept on insisting and...you looked at me in a funny way when we had that chat. I knew that you had found out about yourself. That you had realised it for what it was."_

_Sherlock said nothing. If he was absolutely honest with himself, he had no idea that this thing would become a sort of power that could be wielded, a weapon to be used. It had scared him out of his wits, yes, but there had also been a sense of comfort that now, there was full confirmation of the fact that he was different from others. He had always been a little envious of Mycroft's ability to find his way out of any camping debacle. Once they had found themselves on a strange road and he had confidently taken the entire class on the right track. He had tried to work it out a number of times, and still did when he felt bored. _

_Thinking hard, he realised that their father's attachment to the books in his study was reminiscent of his and Mycroft's strangeness. He couldn't decide what his father did or could do with the books but it gave him comfort to think about him. Comfort ebbed into anger as he realised how good Mycroft's gift was. How wonderful to never get lost, to be able to find your way out of any hole and crawl into one when you needed to. And his gift...it seemed strange to call it a gift, somehow. _

_He turned on to his side, with his back to Mycroft and closed his eyes, pulling his covers and biting down the pain. Mycroft took the hint and walked out of the room, Sherlock could have sworn that he heard a faint apology._

**Thank you for all your reviews, I know the chapters are short but I'm trying to update fast. I hope you leave a review if you like the way the story is progressing. :)**  
**xoxo  
Meow**


	6. Chapter 6

_Sherlock was at the university now, eyes still like the midnight storm but now subdued, mouth still a brow of the sun in Tunisia but less fiery, limbs as pale as ever in the moonlight. He walked with a careful stride, his coat flapping behind him but it's sounds almost muted. Sherlock smiled. Mycroft had only given him one present in his life and it had been the best thing he owned. He ran the fabric of the lapel between his fingers and sighed, rubbing the mound of his palm over it in appreciation. The coat curled around him snugly._

_Victor was a senior and a very intelligent one at that. Perhaps, he was the only person Sherlock would ever consider to be an intellectual equal after his father and Mycroft. And he was beautiful. His skin was olive coloured and his eyes were hazel with flecks of gold around the edges. Whenever Sherlock looked at them, he somehow imagined looking at a solar eclipse from another dimension. And Victor's mouth was as warm as honey and as sharp as spices brewed in wine._

_When he reached the room, he was at once pulled inside by strong arms that cupped his face with fiery passion. He saw stars with just the kiss, the sweet taste of spices breaking into him like a sharp and clear note of music in a graveyard. He deepened the kiss, never feeling so desperate for anything in his life and feeling the familiar ache pool in his groin._

_Victor moved him back into the armchair and pulled Sherlock in his embrace. They kissed for hours and days melted into years but their mouths never lost their want for each other. Gasping and breaking apart, Sherlock's head was gently rested in the crook of Victor's neck and calloused fingers were stroking his jaw, stretching every now and then to scratch him behind his ears that made Sherlock come apart._

_He felt a phrase tug at his vocal chords and glide up to his tongue, longing to break free. As Sherlock ran the words in his mind, he heard Victor's phone ring. They had been meeting after a gap of a month and Sherlock didn't even think that Victor would want to take the call. But he did. He gently nudged Sherlock and slid past him, leaving him curled in his warmth as he picked up the phone and murmured a response and then a few more. He looked a little tense, his shoulders a little stiff and his lips pursed but Sherlock's eyes were closed, both literally and metaphorically._

_The warmth of Victor, his eyes, his voice, his smell, their smell, everything was intoxicating to him. Sherlock had never in his life believed that anything could rival the things he injected in his body in their ability to calm down his brilliant mind. And yet, never had Sherlock been more wrong and been more happy about it. Victor, Victor, Victor, he rolled the name around his tongue and felt a song break into his eyes, raring to undo his entire being._

_Victor had gone to the bathroom and Sherlock could hear the tap running. He sat where Victor had left him and turned his head around, trying to deduce Victor's day from the room. It wasn't that fun, since Victor had just come back from a holiday at his parent's house and the deductions were rather simple and pointless. And yet, because he was taking so much time and Sherlock's mind was breaking itself apart, he got up and traced his lover's movements around the room._

_The first part was simple, Victor's suitcase was open and placed on the side of his bed as he had walked in. Then he had proceeded to hang his coat behind the door, removed his shoes and Sherlock could see that the socks were stuffed in them. Meaning that Victor had walked from the station till here, and had dashed to take a bath to relieve his aching feet. Why had he walked the distance? Victor didn't like to walk and the station was quite a distance from the Uni. Sherlock shrugged, he would ask Victor and get his answers. He resumed his deductions. After that, Victor had come back and phoned Sherlock._

_Sherlock smiled, thinking about his own jubilant expression when he had received Victor's call that evening. He wanted to touch the phone, exactly as Victor had held it, aligning his hands with the shadow of Victor's palms as they had cradled the receiver and heard his voice in a month. Sherlock felt stupid and a little childish but hadn't a famous poet whose name Sherlock had removed from his mind palace called love just that. Love, the very phrase floated in his ears, making him dizzy. He felt like a teenage girl fawning over her lover's smallest of gestures. And for a change, he didn't mind it._

_Sherlock strained his ears to check if Victor was still in the bathroom. It was surprising how long he was taking, the tap was still running and Sherlock knew he wasn't taking a bath again. It didn't matter, Sherlock shook his head and approached the phone._

_He picked it up and pressed it against the shell of his ear. It started with a bitter taste in his mouth that slowly curdled the taste of Victor's lips and left him gasping, bile rising up in his throat. The voice that broke inside his head was new but not unfamiliar. Christie, Victor's cousin or her essence, whatever it was, spoke in hushed tones and Victor's low growl, full of affection but a little apprehensive answered her. No words could be made out in the static of voices but Sherlock knew. He wasn't the same 10 year old boy anymore who couldn't distinguish between the sounds of pain and joy._

_Nausea threatened to shake the ground beneath his feet and Sherlock swayed a little but still held the phone, tears stinging his eyes and blurring his vision, mocking him. There was a palpable knot in his chest that was quickly dissolving with his tears, leaving a hole that threatened to consume him. He let the phone fall limp on the bed and sat down away from it, his head in his hands. His skin felt warm and paper-thin under his fingers and his eyes felt sore._

_Victor came out of the bathroom, looking a little lost. He looked at Sherlock, trying to give a reason for the delay when Sherlock held up his hand to silence him. He looked at Victor once, his eyes still wet and in Victor's lovely hazel eyes, he found every answer he wanted to. The confusion at first, then the slight widening, a pseudo offence building up in his spine and then the utter breakdown in his eyes - the breakdown of relief that he hadn't had to explain anything, to have THE talk. It was only a second but it felt like an eternity, his eyes had really eclipsed every bit of hope Sherlock had left in humanity. Everything was gone, lost, broken. There was no Sherlock. _

_Victor walked towards Sherlock in hurried steps but Sherlock backed away from him, almost certain that he would evaporate if the man touched him. Evaporate and hang like a mist across this room, across the University garden they had met, inside the cafeteria they had shared hurried coffees and kisses in. He felt no pain in his chest, he felt nothing._

_He ran out of the room, out of the grounds, ran till he could run no more and found himself at the station. He had no money, no nothing. There were no people around, just a stray dog and a familiar black car. Sherlock had never thanked God for anything, not even when he had kissed Vi- the word froze in his mind's mouth and he started crying in earnest, walking towards the car. His legs felt like lead but it seemed almost important for his sanity that he reach that car._

_The door swung open as he neared it and inside sat Mycroft Holmes, his fingers steepled together and a steaming mug of something next to him. He looked at Sherlock once, his eyes more sad than Sherlock's but measured, his glance broken over his brother's lost frame but strong. He sat straight and a nerve twitched in his temple. Sherlock got into the car and found himself locked in Mycroft's embrace, the songs of childhood and the familiar scent and solidarity of Mycroft overpowering everything. He cried till his throat grew hoarse and sobbed still even though no sound came. And Mycroft said nothing, just held on to him, his own tears getting lost in Sherlock's hair. The door closed and the car drove away. _

_Victor's parents found an official looking envelope at their doorstep, containing pictures of their son and their sister's daughter making out in their own bedroom. And the picture of Victor and a faceless man with a pale body found its way into Christie's mailbox. And a "Compliments, Mycroft" card found itself hanging on Victor's door. 10 years ago, they had found a badly beaten Rupert, barely alive and tangled in the shrubbery behind the school. 10 years later, Mycroft Holmes didn't even have to raise a finger to ensure that Victor was rusticated from the university, with no explanation given to him and had to spend the night at a motel because neither his family nor Christie would take him in for the night._

**Thank you for all your amazing reviews, especially Lifedrops. I hope you like the pace of the story :) Please take out some time to leave a comment if you like it.  
xoxo  
Meow**


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock saw colours, millions of them, poetry of his senses. Every shade of every imaginable colour possible and they had a different sound. He couldn't feel his own body humming, it was as if he had become the very colours he was surrounded by, his vision melted in them and his breath was an infinite bubble seen in a single ray of sunlight. The colours vibrated in and out of his moods and he stuck his tongue out to taste them. Every tint of every hue tasted different, sourness intermingling with bitter-sweet and cold warmth with honeysuckle. He felt his body getting lifted, up and above the colours and within them, held by nothing but the sinewy arms of the rays that took him so high that he could see the performance of the tones under him. Suddenly, his body felt limp, he was falling, down, down, down. He was going to hit the ground hard. Was there any ground or was it a bottomless abyss. His heart curled up inside his stomach for warmth and Sherlock screamed. He screamed till he woke up, sweating and realising that his mouth was open but no sound was coming out of it.

"John?" he called softly, feeling the beads of sweat slide past his forehead into the pillow. For a second, he couldn't move his arms and panic gripped him but he saw the familiar ceiling with a small jagged crack running down the side and it calmed him. John wasn't beside him, his comforter was gone too, the bed was cold and he must have left a while ago. Sherlock felt small, scared. He remembered their talk of last night, how they had kissed their way into the bedroom and he ached more. Had John left? Surely he would have left a note before leaving.

Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant man, even without his gift. Yes, he could read the thoughts of unliving objects like they were alive. Every dead thing had a residual heartbeat. Some beats faded away with time and some grew stronger under the pressure of a thousand years. Yet, some died when they were alive because they had never felt the caress of another's emotion, not even for a second. Sherlock couldn't read every object but he could tap into those that had something to say, even if it was a dying sob.

And yet, he hadn't been this good when he had found out about it. In fact, till his university, he had done his best to squash it out of himself. Reading things meant that every touch was an experience, everything was full of noise and sound that wandered in his head even after he had lost the touch. He spoke to his skull for hours on end, not because he wanted to talk to someone but because he needed to drown the noise that were living inside him, gnawing at his senses.

And then, Victor had come. Sweet Victor with his mouth of mulled wine and his eyes of gold. He had made Sherlock forget every discord he had ever touched, he had healed and he had cured Sherlock of every scar on his body. And then he had left, giving the scars back and so much more, leaving him with a gaping hole for a heart. He had taken more than love that day, he had taken Sherlock's ability to trust in anyone anymore.

Now that John knew what Sherlock was, why would he want to stay? Didn't he always tell Sherlock about the concept of personal space. Sherlock let a sad laugh escape him, there was no personal space with Sherlock, he touched and he read and he deduced every single thing. He had trained himself for this, to fill up for the trust he had lost and the heart he once had. To fill up the vacuum with more vacuum. It hadn't been easy. After Victor, he had devoted everything to honing his gift, for using it to keep himself busy and not distract him. It was Mycroft's idea, of course, to keep him away from drugs. The drugs hadn't gone immediately for every failure brought with it a new injection, a new high, a crushing low. And yet, almost 16 years later, Sherlock was the only consulting detective in the world.

"FREAK, FREAK, FREAK!" Rupert and the other kids' voices ridiculed him again. Unconsciously, he ran his fingers through his forehead and the voices grew louder. Before he knew, he was staggering out of bed and holding the door for support, his head finding the cool wood soothing. He was in his boxers and was starting to feel a little cold but he walked on, down the stairs and saw that the fire was on.

He dragged his cold body towards it and felt the warmth return back to his toes, and the feelings of pain felt raw again. The flames from the fire place licked each other, trying to win in a battle of flesh, dancing without empathy...

"Sherlock, you're up?"John's voice made Sherlock jump out of his thoughts. He hadn't noticed the small figure huddled on the floor behind the chair. John looked tired but when he smiled at Sherlock, his face looked 20 years younger, every inhibition peeled away as Sherlock glowed warmer than the fire itself. John lifted the blanket with one hand and invited Sherlock in. Sherlock had never felt so blessed in his life. As Sherlock made to slide beside John, he held up a hand, shaking his head.

"Sit here, between my legs." John stretched his legs and put them apart as Sherlock sat with his back lined against John's chest. John pulled the cover over both of them and pulled Sherlock back a little, so that his head was gently resting on John's good shoulder and John could wrap his arms around him.

It was a blissful moment and Sherlock's eyes were bright in the fire. He didn't want the moment to end, ever. The feeling of John's strong arms around him and his breath near his temple, the warmth of the fire and a very quiet London at 3 am in the morning. Everything was perfect. He didn't want to break the silence, but he needed to say things. To talk. To listen. To be reassured.

"I thought you were gone," he said in a small voice, staring straight into the fire and waiting for John to respond.  
"I am never leaving you. Ever." Not even a moment's hesitation in John's voice as he kissed the shell of his ear and dug his nose in Sherlock's hair, making him smile.

"John, you do realise how...you will never have any secrets from me. You would never be able to go anywhere without me knowing about it. Or talk to someone without my knowledge. I..can't- why would you want to condemn yourself to a life like that?" Sherlock's words tumbled out of his mouth in a tumult of waves, he rested his head back, tired and sighed.

"But you do that now, even before I knew about this, you still did it. And I never minded, Sherlock. Yes, there were times when it irked me and believe me, there will be times when I would wish that you didn't do it. But, honestly, what we have is so... the number of times I hate you are nothing compared to the number of times I fall head over heels for you and want to kiss every bit of you insufferable being." John smiled as he felt Sherlock giggle a little.

"John?"  
"Hmm...?"  
"I- do you now think that I'm not amazing? I mean after,erm..." Sherlock finished lamely, his head bowed down and feeling embarrassed.  
John looked at the curly head and protectively wrapped his arms tighter, resting his face on the shoulder. So, this was what Sherlock was bothered about, that he had somehow fooled John into believing him. John almost laughed at the realisation and planted an open mouthed kiss at the shoulder.

"You are amazing, always are and always will be. How can you even think otherwise, you idiot? Yes, you had a gift and while that helps a lot, most people would never even think of using it like you do. You didn't magically turn the gift into the science of deduction, I'm sure you had to spend years trying to perfect it, to ensure that no emotion was uncatalogued, that there were no mixed signals. So, shut up and don't ruin my moment," John snuggled closer, just to reinforce his point.

Sherlock felt giddy with joy. "What did I do to deserve you?" he said quietly. John peppered small kisses on his neck, in response. "Tell me about the time we kissed for the first time," John mumbled shyly in his shoulder. Heavens knew he wasn't a man for romantic recounting of first kisses, he liked his love simply and uncomplicated, not overtly rosy and Shakespearean. But he wanted to know about it, he was curious and it made him feel, strangely, nostalgic...?

Sherlock hummed a reply and settled himself properly in the cocoon of limbs around him before his deep voice was filling John's head again, unfettered and lukewarm, washing over every part of John it could reach, drowning him in blissful oblivion.

**Thank you for all your amazing reviews so far. They really mean a lot to me. Please let me know of any typos you find and if you like the story :)  
xoxo  
Meow**


	8. Chapter 8

_John's lips were warm and so very John, they were firm and a little chapped from the cold. Sherlock traced the top lip with the tip of his tongue as John's hands found his lapels and clutched at them. He swiped across the lip once, twice, painfully slow, dragging it as if he wanted to map every wrinkle on the lip to a mental Atlas. He reached the edge and made his way down to the lower lip. John's senses were heightened, he wanted nothing but to take Sherlock's mouth in his own and kiss him till he wore his kissed and swollen lips for the rest of his life as souvenirs. And yet, this was intoxicating, this was so Sherlock, the drawing out of a simple act to breaking point and so sensual. When Sherlock actually sucked on his lower lip, John made a sound he couldn't recognise as his own. It was a sound of such longing that he almost felt embarrassed. He let his senses take over and vanished into the kiss, inside Sherlock's body, inside his beautiful brain. Sherlock, when he was done sketching out every reaction, when John was just opening up his mouth to invite him in, backed off looking at John with wide eyes. And he staggered back to hail a cab in the direction of Baker Street, leaving John alone in the alley._

_OoO_

_John ran his tongue continuously across his lower lip throughout the crime scene and Sherlock had all but fallen for him, as dead as the body they were examining. And then they were inside the ornate flat, dressy and very tastefully painted. Painted because there was no furniture, nothing at all except a computer. And that, they had thoroughly stripped of all the information they could get. Sherlock was staring at the computer, his eyebrows knit together and expression faraway._

_"The mouse is on the right, is going to get away because of a technicality. We have to prove that this computer was used by a left handed person but how!?" Sherlock's lips were pursed with frustration as he spoke to Lestrade. And then John had walked in and he had not really wanted to break into their conversation but he had. "Erm, Sherlock, left handed people find it easier to have the mouse on their right. It is much more convenient." Sherlock looked at John as if he was watching him for the first time. His viridian eyes washing over Sherlock's grey ones as Sherlock looked at Lestrade who looked surprised._

_"John's getting better, isn't he?" Lestrade said with a grin but the note of pride was unmistakable in his voice. _  
_"I-read it in a book about deduction and then tried noticed that back when I had a PC, I used to have the mouse on the right too. So, erm-" he finished, flushing with embarrassment._

_"Yes, Lestrade, so now we're done. Even if this rule is an exception and not an absolute thing, Goddard can't get away. There is plenty of incriminating evidence against him. You'll be fine now, I suppose?" he said, not even waiting for a reply and all but dragging John out of the flat._

_"You read a book on the science of deduction?" Sherlock said the moment they got out_

_"Err, yeah, it was..well, I thought it would be nice to know a few things about it and that...well, I was going to gift that book to you." Sherlock noticed John blushing and it made his heart stop. They walked for a few feet, John humming and that's when Sherlock turned around, dragged him into the alley and kissed him. And yet, now here he was, standing alone in the very alley, feeling lost and confused. He looked around and found a bar, deciding that it was best to give himself and Sherlock some time alone._

_OoO_

_Sherlock hurried across the stairs and closed the door shut with a loud bang. His breathing was hard and laboured and he wanted nothing but to curl up on the couch and somehow turn back time to the point before he had lost his mind. Why had he done it, didn't he remember the last time and the results such an action had caused. Heavens knew he didn't have it in him to go through that again and this wasn't helped by the fact that this could lead to John leaving him. He would be alone again, not only without love but without his best friend, the closest he had ever had. He kicked the couch and made his way up inside John's room._

_The room was simple and neat, he could smell the lemon detergent in John's clean sheets and his favourite brown jumper was neatly draped on the back of his straight backed chair. Sherlock tried to calm himself down, taking deep breaths and feeling the air break the walls of his lungs. His throat felt cold and dry as his eyes found what they were looking for. There it was again, Sherlock back to business. No privacy. John's diary wasn't exactly hidden but it was kept at the bottom of 4 books, piled haphazardly on top of each other. The cover was moleskin and it looked very old, perhaps it had some sentimental value to John and the very thought made Sherlock smile. John and sentiments. Then he realised how he might not see John again and that made his heart throb with a million thoughts that berated him for his foolish act again._

_Sherlock knew that one must never read someone's diary because that is stepping over the lines of trust and friendship. And yet, what he was going to do was much more than that, he was going to read every bit of John's life without even turning a page. The guilt coursed through his veins and almost made him turn back but he had to know, what if John left? He would never get a chance to understand this. And then a small ray of hope burned its way out of a hole in his chest, what if John stayed? Then this act would ruin whatever chance he had at happiness._

_So many thoughts and deductions screamed inside his skull and echoed to and fro that Sherlock gripped the end of the table and sat on the chair, closing his eyes shut and digging his knuckled in them, trying to make the voices go away. He looked at the diary and picked it up. It was as if a film was waiting to be played, the back of his eyelids flashed with some blurry and some crystal sharp images, some mere colours and some loud sounds. John was very attached to this little diary, of course Sherlock had a myriad things to read._

_At first it was a small house, white in colour with a tiny but very nice garden. A woman who had John's blue-green eyes could be seen every now and then, superimposed memories making her age several years in a second before Sherlock could focus on the little boy with a dog. John was staring out of the window and he looked happy as he petted the dog. Then John was standing with his head between the bars of the stairs, peering down as his parents fought with each other. This memory was so sharp that Sherlock gasped with the salty taste that pervaded his mouth and his very fingers. The boy cried with his face buried in his dog's fur. The memories were plenty, some were simple days when John had walked home from school on a brilliant evening and others were painful where he had to stay at his father's for the weekend. Then John's form grew almost a feet as Sherlock saw him kissing a girl for the first time. Sherlock's brain almost fast forwarded the scenes that flashed in front of his eyes. When he reached Afghanistan, he puked inside the bin that was lying next to the table, and then decided that he didn't want to see this. It was something too private to John, something he might not want Sherlock to see. It felt absurd to think about it like that because there might be a million things he might not want Sherlock to see and Sherlock was abusing his privacy quite heartlessly. Sherlock wiped his mouth and went on to where he actually wanted to._

_John was with Sherlock,eating at Angelo's and Sherlock felt a warmth flood through his senses as the memory made its way inside his eyes. Sherlock was sleeping on the couch with his mouth open and John gently covered him with a quilt, smiling and ruffling his hair as he went. John was kissing Sarah and he thought of Sherlock and broke the kiss, apologising but very confused. John was...Sherlock was everywhere. There was no point in refuting that. Sherlock's heart lifted and he felt a lump in his throat that was raring to break free. It wasn't...Sherlock's mistake. John had wanted this, possibly for a long time. And if Sherlock was honest with himself, he had too. He had made small changes in his life just to make John happy, he had started eating more because it make John smile. He made him tea occasionally, to catch the look of pleasant surprise on his face that Sherlock thought about for days to come. He moved his experiments away from the common areas and kitchen (as far as possible). He let John take care of him and scold him for misbehaving with stupid people like Anderson._

_He...the door opened and Sherlock checked his watch, realising that it had almost been 2 hours since he left the crime scene. John must be home. He almost ran downstairs and saw John sitting on the couch, still confused and a little hurt. Sherlock looked at him and realised how much he had grown to depend on this man, his friend, companion, colleague and perhaps, lover. He wanted to say a million things, to apologise, to tell John about everything he had ever felt in his life and yet, he just stood there watching John. After a few minutes, John looked up at him, his eyes clearer and the pain gone out of them. "You got scared, didn't you? Don't tell me you regret it happened or I will murder you, Sherlock." John said, a smile dying to break across his face as Sherlock mumbled inaudibly and nodded._

_The next thing he knew, John was pinning him against the wall and kissing him deeply. The soft kiss they had shared a few hours ago was anything but a faint memory as they claimed each other hungrily, moaning in each other's embrace, hands trying to touch everything, tongues getting tangled and noses bumping in awkwardness and yet, they didn't stop. The kiss stretched itself into days and weeks, until after a few months, John and Sherlock found each other at the exact same spot, with John confessing his love to him and Sherlock backing off._

__**I hope you have enjoyed the story so far, there would just be one more chapter and I can promise some tasteful smut ;)  
xoxo  
Meow**


	9. Chapter 9

**Mature Readers Only. This is SMUT SMUT SMUT! ;)**

The fire had all but died out and both of them were warm. Sherlock had slid down John's chest and his head rested casually across John's belly, the dying embers of fire were reflected in his eyes, burning a million times stronger, turning the greys into a deeper shade of scarlet, in sharp contrast to their tangible breaths that left their mouths like smoke unfurling at a distance, vanishing across the naked sky. John pushed himself up and Sherlock slid further down, making an impatient sound. "Undress for me," John whispered as he worked his own pants down.

Morning was upon them, well almost, for the sky looked like a faint shade of some noir drama. Sherlock moved up, stroking John's front with his back and making him sigh. John stopped him right when his head reached under his chin, getting the perfect position to push him forward and lick a strip of his delicious pale skin. His tongue travelled from the middle of his spine and ended at the side of his throat as Sherlock clutched held John's knees and made the most delicious of moans.

It had taken them quite some time to know about each other's soft spots and they were still exploring most of the secrets of their bodies but the ones they did know were put to full use. Sherlock drew back his hands to clutch at John's waist, wanting to turn around when John stopped him, biting into the neck and sucking gently, leaving a mark. Mine, mine, mine, the air hummed with their unspoken declarations, their fascinated sighs.

John travelled down from his neck to the sweet spot where it met his shoulder, where he could kiss for hours on end and every moan of Sherlock would be stronger than his last. His hands roamed freely across his lover's pale torso, tips stroking his sides. When he flicked Sherlock's left nipple, he gasped and turned around to kiss him on the mouth. The kiss was forceful and full of want & John felt his own length shiver as Sherlock placed his palms flat on either side of John's feet and stroked it with his ass. The way his hips moved made John want to thrust it inside him, Sherlock deepened the kiss and moaned in his mouth and John took his left nipple between his fingers and squeezed it, making Sherlock stop the merciless teasing.

"You tease,"John whispered in his ear, his other hand gently brushing over his pubic hair. "Says who,"Sherlock whispered back but his voice sounded hoarse and he whimpered again as John attacked another nipple. He could see pre-come glistening on the tip of Sherlock's cock and God it almost made him come to see Sherlock so hard and aching, just for him, only for John and no one else. Mine, mine, mine, the words echoed across the walls in a silent chant.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" John said quietly, his voice low and seductive but true. Today would be all about Sherlock, not John. He wanted to tell him how much he wanted him, how his fears were baseless, he wanted to make love to Sherlock and watch him come undone, then hold him close till they melted in each other. The protectiveness washed over him like winter's sorrow, it was cold and it made his heart ache with love and yet, a firefly of passion glowered between the fog of it.

"You," Sherlock's breath grazed John's chin. John drew his legs back as Sherlock turned around to lay on top of him, their erections brushing as they moaned in their languid kiss. They rubbed against each other AT a gentle pace, deepening the kiss and catching the taste of their familiar mouths. When he saw John's open face, his eyes closed in surrender, Sherlock knew that he would never be alone, that the man under him would never leave him and he wouldn't let him to. He thought about the things they will never have. "I think about the things we will have," John whispered under him. Sherlock felt his woolen soul being pulled at, the last thread stretched till a spool of naked emotions were thrown at the skies and tied to balloons to fly away.

John looked at him smiling as Sherlock got up and fished for the lube under the couch and for once, John thanked Sherlock mentally for the odd hiding places he had. "Come here, you,"John pulled him down, taking the lube from his hands and kissing his gorgeous lips. He coated his fingers nicely and gently circled Sherlock's entrance with it. John knew when Sherlock would grunt with impatience and as he opened his mouth, John pressed against the puckered hole as Sherlock lost his words, his eyes rolling in his head. He entered him with one finger and Sherlock's 'oh' was lost. After a few thrusts, he let the second finger in as Sherlock shivered when John scissored them. He bit at John's neck, sucking hard and moaning further when he was stretched open by John's third finger. With doctor's precision, he found the prostate easily enough and he gently brushed against it. Sherlock breathed in gasps and was now leaving bites all over John's neck, his hands clawing at his back. John took the swollen nub between his tips, barely pressing as Sherlock screamed, "Oh god, please, John..."

John hadn't noticed how hard he was until now but the mere mention of his name from those cupid bowed lips which were now open in a perfect heart, made him realise how much he wanted the warmth around him. He slicked his cock with the lube and lined himself behind him but Sherlock shook his head. "Want to see you come," his voice was barely audible, like a secret floating in the ocean. John obliged, capturing his mouth in another kiss.

When he entered Sherlock, they gasped together without abandon. Sherlock's head was buried in John's shoulder and he was dripping with sweat. He smelled of Assam tea and the moist soil after rains. He smelled of chemicals. He smelled of John. He was so tight around him that John had to move slowly or he would come in a few minutes. They found their rhythm within a few thrusts and Sherlock screamed John's name every time he hit his prostate. John felt himself lose every time he heard his name. He felt Sherlock's arm snake past his side and take his own erection in hand as John pounded into him, his arms circling the pale body.

Sherlock's body clenched tightly around John's and he came with a drawn out moan of John's name. As he rode the last of his orgasm, John came too, buried in Sherlock's arms and almost sobbing with pleasure.

After a few seconds, John pulled Sherlock up and motioned towards the bedroom where he cleaned them both with a damp flannel. They lay side by side under a single quilt, wrapped in a lazy embrace. John's breathing evened out slowly as he felt himself drifting when he felt Sherlock's hand on his cheek, stroking his jaw with his other thumb.

"I love you," he whispered. Then he said it again and again and again. John watched him repeat the phrase and feel it in his mouth, the taste growing stronger with every utterance till he could take it no more and captured his mouth in a kiss. "I love you." Sherlock repeated, his voice stronger.

And he repeated it till they grew old with knobbly knees and cataract ridden eyes, till they couldn't walk without sticks, till they lay next to each other under the earth, till they floated across the sky on a starry night.

**Thank you for reading this story, this is where it gets over. I hope you like it and like it enough to leave a review. I'd love to know what you feel. :)  
xoxo**  
**Meow**


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